Worry courses through me, and I look over at Rogan as I try to swallow back my panic. It hasn’t been lost on me that he hasn’t said a word since Marx dropped the trade bomb.
“Penny for your thoughts,” I snark, and it seems to snap him out of whatever’s going on inside his head. He focuses back on me and then looks at Marx as though he’s getting his bearings.
“Do they know how the note got to the Order? There’s not a lead there?” Rogan asks, and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
“There’s a team looking into it, but they haven’t found anything substantial yet,” Marx replies, and his phone chirps a notification.
“Fuck!” Rogan snarls, starting to pace.
I jump at the sudden outburst, my heart aching for what he must be going through. “Do you think you and Elon know her, ran into her somewhere?” I ask him, trying to pull at the threads we have before us.
“I don’t know, I’d have to see a picture, but the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I can get a picture emailed over to you,” Marx assures him, sighing as he takes in his pacing friend. “The bones didn’t say anything else?” he asks me, and I open my mouth to say no before it dawns on me that’s not true.
“They said run,” I tell him, baffled by why I hadn’t thought of that until now.
“What?” Rogan and Marx both ask simultaneously.
“I was scrying, I got the name, then it told me to run. When I looked up, I saw you in the backyard,” I tell them, gesturing to Marx. “I assumed you were the reason for the warning. I just didn’t think about it after that,” I admit, feeling a little dumb now. “Everything happened so fast. Marx wasn’t a threat, but then I was dealing with what I saw from Tilda and the bones. It just got lost in the mix, I guess.”
“Why would they tell you to run?” Rogan questions, but it seems like it’s aimed more at himself than at me.
“I have no idea,” I confess, trying to think back to that day. “I shoved magic through Elon’s whole property. I didn’t pick up on anything else there other than Marx lurking in the backyard.”
I study Marx for a beat and notice that Rogan does the same thing.
“Do you have anything to do with the disappearances?” Rogan asks his friend.
“What? Of course I don’t. How could you even think that?” he sputters, shocked.
“I’m not accusing you of anything; I had to ask,” Rogan defends and then returns to his pacing.
I move closer to Marx and poke at his cheek. He slaps my hand away and levels an irritated glare at me until I back away.
“Just making sure we don’t have some Scooby Doo shit on our hands,” I tell him. “No bad guy wearing a good guy mask is getting past me.”
Marx just shakes his head and shoos me away even more.
“This doesn’t add up. Why would a kidnapper out themselves to authorities and then expect said authorities to help them?” Rogan questions, his eyes far away in thought. “How does that make sense?”
“Does it need tomakesense?” I counter. “Nikki Smelser, or whoever is behind this, obviously has issues. There isn’t a thing about any of it thatmakes sense. I don’t know that we’ll get anywhere other than pissed off and frustrated by trying to make sense of why anything is happening the way that it is.”
Rogan sighs and runs a hand down his face. “So what do we do now?” he asks Marx, whose phone goes off again.
“We keep doing what we’ve been doing,” Marx reassures. “We look into what leads we can and keep fitting things together until the puzzle is complete. Are you still wanting to get into the other missing Osteomancers’ houses?”
“Yes, I want to get a feel for them, see if the bones can tell me anything,” I confirm.
“Okay, I can try and sneak you into a couple tomorrow night. They are all being warded and guarded right now, but a couple people on the team owe me a favor,” Marx reassures.
“Okay, good, because the last place I want to be is anywhere near the Order,” I admit, flashes of the accident and subsequent attack coaxing a shiver to crawl up my back.
“Yeah, I think that’s a wise idea. Prek and his team have been assigned to the case, and there’s obviously no love lost there,” Marx informs us. “I’m sorry to just drop all of this and run, but I’ve got to go,” he announces moving toward the door. “I’ll send over a picture of Nikki when I get back to the office, and I’ll confirm we’re good to go for tomorrow night.”
“Thank you,” Rogan tells him, grasping his forearm for a quick shake before seeing him out. Marx shoots me a wave and an apologetic look, and then he’s gone.
Rogan and I release a tired sigh at the same time. It would be funny in other circumstances, but right now it feels like we might be taking the last gasp of air before we’re pulled under by everything we just found out. I want to comfort Rogan, but experience has taught me that sometimes there isn’t anything that can be said or done to make something stop hurting. So I just stand there, silently supportive, so that he knows he’s not alone in this.
